


And We Are Still Here

by turnyourankle



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete's seen her around--her sharp nose and twist of lips is familiar, but he can't place her. There's a vague feeling of recognition, like maybe he should know her. Maybe he caught Chris with her one night, or she's someone from the label's kid and he needs to <i>please behave</i> around her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We Are Still Here

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [03/04/08](http://community.livejournal.com/we_are_cities/182213.html) Am I slow? Yes, I am. This is an amnesty of sorts, finished it off recently after fiddling with it for months. This is truly self-indulgent. Many thanks to [](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lovebashed.livejournal.com/)**lovebashed** for making sure it reads alright.

  
Pete's seen her around--her sharp nose and twist of lips is familiar, but he can't place her. There's a vague feeling of recognition, like maybe he should know her. Maybe he caught Chris with her one night, or she's someone from the label's kid and he needs to _please behave_ around her.

Her hand cups her glass of white wine, the other scratching her crossed knee. Nick is leaning into her, hands and face animated. Maybe Nick made him swear to remember her, but Pete usually does remember that category, nowadays. If she'd turn around maybe he could--

"What." She blinks once, a stern look on her face. Almost like she's mad at him, like she could pounce any second; she's just waiting for him to mess up. And that's when it hits him, where he knows her from. He's seen her at shows before, with that same angry look. Thrashing in moshpits, throwing kicks to the beat, and holding her own.  
   
"Pete!" Nick's face stretches out, and he gets up, limbs languid as he grabs Pete's arm and ushers him towards the couch. "Peter, Jeanae; Jeanae, Peter."

Pete waves curtly with his coke can. He waits for the recognition to hit her too, but she just nods, entirely unimpressed.

"So Nick, s'this your lovely date?"

Nick slaps him on the shoulder." You know you’re the only date for me."

"Aren't you a little old for nicknames?" She takes a sip of her wine, and her lips twitch with an almost unnoticeable wince.

Pete rocks back on his heels, says, "Hi to you too. You clean up nice."

"Excuse me?" Her thumb's rubbing against one of her dress straps.

"I mean--I think I've seen you at some shows, you know? Beer soaked hair isn't really a flattering look on anyone." He grins wide, feeling the skin of his face spreading involuntarily. 

She sucks in her cheeks, and it sort of looks like she's about to spit on him. "But raccoon eyes is?"

Nick clears his throat, trying to pass it off as laughter. "Okay, this isn't battle of the dates. New Year's. I'm pretty sure the countdown is on like, now."

Pete doesn't acknowledge Nick, just continues, "Right. Let's start over, huh? Nick's right. As a gift of reconciliation I offer my New Year's kiss."

Nick hides his face in his palm, Jeanae hasn't moved from her seat, still sunk in the couch. She hasn't pounced yet. "I really don't think so."

"Hey, Nick, think fast," Pete says before pulling Nick down to him and planting a wet kiss on his mouth.

"Happy New Year!" Pete's arm is still draped around Nick's shoulders.

"Jesus, Pete, give a guy a warning, man. You were supposed to stop doing that." Pete cackles as Nick feebly slaps at his chest. Behind Nick, Jeanae's holding her glass in front of her face, trying to hide her laughter.

Pete flashes teeth and squints at the clock.

 

 

 

 

 

"Peter?" Her voice comes from behind, and it startles him when he sees her. It's too kind for her face, as is her expression.

She's prettier up close, more real without all the thick mascara and stiff hair. She has a cut on her lip, and a spot at the edge of her jaw. She catches him staring and buries her chin in the collar of her hoodie.

"What's up?"

She shrugs, not coming any closer. She doesn't look angry anymore, just deflated. There are dark rings under her eyes that could as easily be from leftover make-up as from the lack of sleep.

"Waiting for my frap."

"Right." He nods. "Mint or caramel?"

"Mint. For Christmas--well, winter."

"Nice."

The guy behind the counter calls out her name, and she grabs her cup, lacing her fingers around it. "Soooo. How's the new year treated you?"

Pete shrugs. "Starbucks tastes the same."

"Old reliable." She coughs, pausing. "It's Juh-nay, by the way." She clears her throat.  "People tend to forget--so."

"Yeah."

"I don't blame them or anything. It's fine."

Pete watches as she taps her fingers against her cup. Her nail polish is chipped.

"I would. Blame them. Sounds like it fucking sucks."

She almost smiles, briefly, and shakes it off. "It does, yeah." She pauses. "This is gonna keep you up all night," she says, reaching towards him and tapping a finger against his cup.

"Maybe I want it to."

She probably takes it as an affirmation, but it's better than her knowing that the coffee's not really what keeps him up.

"Et tu?"

Her fingers slip across her bangs. "Huh?"

"You're getting coffee too."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, I have an allnighter to pull. School is so fucking pointless."

"What do you want to do, then?"

"Hair, I think. I do my own, so. And I helped Ash--this girl friend of mine--dye her hair auburn. Everyone thought she'd been to a fancy salon." She scrunches up her face, taking a drink, giving him a chance to interject. He stays silent

"I think I've got it down pretty good. The hard stuff’s with like, highlights. I was gonna do my own but that's so hard. Nick said I could use him, but I dunno, it'd be hard to see on his hair color, and it's so short."

Pete snorts. "He would."

"I think it's a business for me though. I tried convincing my parents to let me drop out last year, but my mom told me to watch _Grease_ or something. They're completely nuts. Besides, I don't think hair people would care about me. I could get gauges the size of baseballs and still have clients."

"Just a different kind."

"A better kind," she says with a grin. Her hood crumbles with the movement.

 

 

 

 

 

"I'm not gullible, you know. I don't even--I mean. I don't know you really. You could be a serial killer."  Her heel digs into the grass. It makes a gash in the lawn; the lawn that his mom makes him mow, that she agonizes over the placement of the sprinklers, asking him to move them every couple of weeks. Jeanae kicks up her foot, and dirt speckles the grass. He can already picture his mom frowning as she bends over the hole, trying to figure out what kind of hooligan abused her lawn. "No offense."

He almost snorts, but the way she's looking at him makes him feel like it might be inappropriate. He can't see her hands where they are hiding in the sleeves of her jacket.

"Right. No, yeah, the same. If it were reversed." He smiles big and bright. It makes him uncomfortable, faking like that, but it's the right thing to do, apparently, since Jeanae's shoulders drop. He hadn't noticed they were tense. He adds, "I've seen you moshing, you're scary."

She smiles too, not big or bright but it looks genuine, and it's like she did punch him now. She leans in and kisses his cheek, lips dry. He did good.

Her hair slaps against his face as she turns too fast, running off in the street.

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanae's standing below a broken streetlamp, glowing faintly. The light makes her face look like a woodcut; shadows slicing her features. Her lips taste of disinfectant, and she pulls back faster than usual. Pete'd been back a week before calling her, spending his time doing nothing but watch old tapes and look at the dust as it settled on his window; letting his mom watch him, make him breakfast. Pretend not to notice she double checked that he took his pills.

"I'm not used to this," she says. Her eyes glint in the dark, as does her beer against her mouth. Briefly, she presses her back against his chest before pulling back again, remembering what she's trying to say. "It's like you can read my fucking mind, but you're all. All solid. It's not fair."

It's the first time Pete feels guilty. He shrugs, waits for her to fit herself against him.

"Why are you here? Tell me. You can see everything in my fucking head, what is it you want from it? Why don't you just take it and leave."

"I tried," he says, but it doesn't come out as he hoped it would. Humor lost in translation. She ignores him, her beer aligned with her mouth again. She wipes her mouth against her sleeve.

"You're leaving. Again."

"Yeah."

She kicks the dirt and sniffs, wiping her face again.

"You know that, you knew that."

"Whatever."

She looks almost brittle, sitting on the concrete, hugging her legs. Her lip is swollen, piercing half-submerged in flesh, and her eyes are black. Mosh gone wrong, she'd told him. He's glad he can't see the extent of it, and how fresh the wounds are.

"You know, a lot happens when you're gone. You can't just expect everything to be the same. And I can't just come running whenever you want me to, like, whenever you're here." Another swipe of beer. "I've got homework, Peter. SATs? I have to. There's stuff I have to do."

"For what it's worth, I'm glad I didn't die before I met you." He's halfway out already, air sharp against his lips and fingers; the cold cutting into his skin.

"Is that a threat? Peter? _Peter_ , is that a fucking threat?" Her turn is sharp, and her feet kick him for each shrug.

"I don't always want to leave." She pushes him hard, and harder when he doesn't budge, straddling him as she climbs into his lap.

"Then stay. Stay, stay, stay." Her hair is short again, tips barely visible as he weaves his fingers in it. She pushes against him, harder and harder, and the post digs into his spine. "There's a fucking choice, sometimes."

The muscles of her belly are tight as she holds her breath, and he holds her in place. There are more bruises than those on her face, he can tell by the way she flinches. She keeps her hands on his face, digging her fingertips into his flesh.

She stays with him, letting him kiss her neck and collarbone, wet her shirt with spit despite the cold. Her hands move to his arms, nails digging in. The marks are temporary, but the sentiment isn't.

He dry swallows another pill when he gets home, choosing to leave his glass full. He savors the feel of it scraping the inside of his throat.

 

 

 

 

 

Jeanae lies half on top of him when she sleeps: legs locked with his, and chest pressed against his ribs. It makes him feel needed at first, necessary. He can't decide whether she's the good fit or if he is, who complements whom.

He stares at the ceiling when he runs out of birthmarks to count, thinks of ways in which they are a puzzle: her breasts in his hands, her hipbones against his palms, slope of her belly and ribs against the arch of his back.

He can see the space that needs to be filled, and when it's early and she hasn't settled yet, he thinks he might be able to do that, color her in.

After a while he doesn't feel anything other than the prickling in his arm and thigh as they go numb.

 

 

 

 

 

On tour, she doesn't wrap around him like he expects her to. She gets up early at first, folding t-shirts and piling them behind merch tables and back into the trunk. Watching as Pete puts on his make up, and looking for laundromats.

After a few weeks she folds herself instead of the shirts, disappearing into smaller and smaller pieces, curling her toes against Pete's calves in the van. She has circles under her eyes darker than his, and she's acts more like his shadow than anything else. His pills are disappearing faster than they're supposed to.

"You know, she's not--I really don't think you have to watch her," Patrick says before a show, when she's sleeping in the van. She'd missed the past few shows, passed out in her seat, only waking up at the bus stops. There's tension in Pete's jaw that can't be rubbed out, and he bites the neck of his bottle. 

"That's not the point."

"Right."

Squashed between Joe's ass and Jeanae's knees, Pete tries to will her awake by staring at her face. She curls up tighter, further away from him.

He buys her socks at the next stop, and he holds her hand despite her cold fingers.

 

 

 

 

 

Their rendezvous spot looks the same, save for the light in the lamppost actually working. It's coated with dust, and Jeanae is leaning against it indiscriminately. She has a tan, a new haircut.

He whispers a ‘hey’ into her neck as she twitches with a new reluctance for the drink on his breath. He leans in closer, closer into her frame, trying to will her into pushing him off, say something. She twists her mouth instead and pats down his hair inside his hood.

She only lets him take her hand after a whispered _love you_ , desperate, and she lets out a deep sigh. Her grip around his hand is firm, warming his fingers from the cold, and she follows his lead.

Jeanae's bedroom floor is covered in clothes that aren't hers, and Pete drops his own over them, using the sole of his shoe to make a path in the room.

She's too pliable, folding under him and his hands. As if he needs her; he doesn't, but he takes off her shirt anyway.

The fit of him between her legs is the only thing that's familiar; her legs like anchors and her birthmarks a map he should be able to remember.

There's a scar below her ribs, and Pete can't remember if it was there before.


End file.
